


Starts With Goodbye

by LadyOfGlencairn, sweetrupturedlight



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfGlencairn/pseuds/LadyOfGlencairn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetrupturedlight/pseuds/sweetrupturedlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen is with child. Perhaps with time, he would find acceptance in what had become the greatest injustice of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starts With Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> 5 chapters based on and after the events of 1x10. The final chapter is co-written with ladyofglencain

_“The queen is with child.”_

The words ricocheted around his mind like ammunition expelled from a musket. Three months, _three months_ since he had lain with her, three months to try and forget a woman he had no business dreaming about, a _queen_ he had no right wanting for his own. He had even managed to avoid coming to court - until today.

It had not been difficult maintaining a cursory distance. With the investigation into the Cardinal underway, there were always errands to attend. And with Athos aware of what pained him, the older Musketeer ensured that should such errands need attention, that he be assigned to it when an audience with the King was requested.

Athos also proved a veritable wealth of suggestions to distract him from what really ailed. “Madam de Darrieux has been covertly batting her lashes in your direction. She might prove a diversion.”

Aramis had raised a brow in his friend’s direction. “Charming that you noticed such a thing,” he had replied drolly.

“Go at it, eh Aramis?” Porthos had said, a large grin and a slap to the shoulder as an accompaniment.

But a diversion she wasn’t. In fact, he took a few women to his bed. And each left him equally unsatisfied.

 _She is not any woman. She is the Queen. I would suggest setting your sights a lot lower._ He tried. He tried daily. But how did he do that when he had already sampled perfection?

A few days prior, the Cardinal had been trapped by his own game and Aramis had been forced to feign indifference when she walked into the hall to bear witness to Richelieu’s confession. Athos had voiced stern warnings before their departure in preparation of their first encounter since parting in the palace throne room months ago. His intentions had been pure in attempting to heed those admonitions.

But his resolve quivered slightly when he swore he could smell the lavender essence that coated her hair when she walked past him in the corridor, the scent wrapping itself around him as he stood by her side. But experience of late proved that his senses could not be trusted. During sparring practice he had landed in the dirt and when he closed his eyes, he was convinced he could smell her scent too. Dirt and royal eau de parfam; they were nothing alike.

“I sense her everywhere, Athos. I cannot eat, or sleep without thought of her,” Aramis had said after Athos had cautioned him to get his head in gear. He had been in awe of her impressive performance when dealing with the Cardinal.

“Unthink it!” Athos growled. “I did not think it necessary to have to reiterate this. _She_ is not a _her_!” he emphasised. “ _She_ is the Queen of France! Looking at _her_ is cause for treason. What you have already done seals your fate with an executioner. This is not some dalliance in which you attempt to thwart the Cardinal! Your very life is on the line.”

Aramis felt his temper and frustration merge as he forcefully pushed Athos up against a wall. “I know this! But she is not like the others!” he admitted without thought. “She’s…”

Realisation dawned on Athos’s face. Realisation and pity. Beneath his breath he cussed fiercely. “You’re in love with her?”

Aramis let him go, both breathing heavily from the exertion. Truthfully, he didn’t know. Was he? He had no reply.

“You _must_ gain control of yourself. This can only lead to heartache for all involved.”

Aramis’s thoughts returned to the present, focused on keeping his gaze steady when his heart was exploding inside his chest.

_“The queen is with child.”_

A panic he had not felt before flooded his gut, almost rendering his knees weak. With calm he did not feel, his gaze swung to his friend, the only other person in the world who knew the possible gravity of the statement. Athos’s gaze caught his briefly, the look there displeased, latent anger simmering behind hooded eyes, completely aware of what this joyous news might mean for them should anyone suspect his ‘involvement’ – the hangman’s noose.

His mind had not yet caught up to the ramifications of the King’s edict when his eyes collided with hers as she passed him. To Aramis, time stood still when her soft blue eyes caught his, holding for a moment before her progress made it impossible to hold her gaze any longer. He could not read her, his own anxious state perhaps the reason for it. But her lavendar scent was a cruel comfort.

As they filed from the room, Athos pulled him aside, slipping behind a pillar to share a hushed caution. “I should have known your dalliance would end in ruin.” It was a lazy drawl, deceptively calm.

Aramis had no witty reply, as was his usual nature. He too knew that at present, should the child be his, he walked a fine line between life and certain death. “Let’s not be hasty, Athos. The child may yet-”

Athos’s direct stare put an end to the rest of his thought as his voice trailed off. “You easily dispense advice to Porthos on the particularities of women. Yet you forget Aramis, I just witnessed the way the Queen _looked_ at you. Dear God, the child is yours!” The last part was an almost silent hiss. Under different circumstances, he might have been highly amused at Athos’s irate state. But the matter before them called not for humour. Instead, he knew his friend spoke truthfully and with deep concern.

“Monsieur Aramis,” a woman called. Aramis turned from his friend and recognised one of Anne’s ladies standing a little way across the now empty hall. Athos rolled his eyes when he stepped forward toward the woman.

“I cannot simply ignore her,” he whispered.

“You could damned try,” came the hushed reply.

“The Queen requests an audience before you leave the palace.” She looked towards Athos. “In private if you please.”

Athos brushed past him. “I’ll await you out front. Do not dally long.” His tone conveyed a stern warning and Aramis nodded, his expression grim.

He followed the lady, each step he took echoing off the marble floors until all he heard was the incessant ringing of his stilted footsteps. Everything looked brighter, magnified – sights, sounds. In many ways, he knew not if what awaited him was heaven or hell. Perhaps a special kind of purgatory for one such as he.

He saw the queen standing ahead, a chaperone discreetly moving off to the side, offering them some, if not much privacy.

With large windows in front of her, she looked radiant in the late afternoon sun. He swallowed an attack of longing, knowing how she looked with her hair down, her skin kissed by the sun, her lips swollen from his kisses, but also adorned by flickering candlelight. Truth be told, he preferred the intimacy of the latter.

She did not turn to look at him, but had no doubt heard his halting footsteps.

“I am convinced this baby will be born strong and healthy,” she said, her voice echoing off the circular room. She turned to look at him then, walking to the centre of the room. “Like his father.” His eyes caught her small hands as they protectively embraced her abdomen. Foolish emotion filled his gut. _Like his father._ He swallowed.

“It will be a boy,” she continued. “I am certain of it.”

He knew a little of pregnant women, loving women as much as he did. She already had the radiance of a woman nurturing life. _A part of me._

His hands needed something to do, so Aramis toyed with the brim of his hat, stepping steadily towards her. “I pray he will have his mother’s great wisdom. And judgement.”

She smiled into his eyes and his heart squeezed. “And his father’s courage.”

And then his heart broke. By saying nothing, but by saying everything, Anne, Queen of France admitted that the child she carried belonged to the both of them. He could have fallen to his knees and begged at that moment - begged for her love, her eternal devotion, begged that she would acquiesce to any manner of things that could never be.

It took every ounce of courage to pull his emotions to heel. With sincerity, loyalty, but the deepest regret, he vowed: “I will watch over your son and guard him with all my strength and heart.” He saw her eyes glaze and watched her blink back her own sentiment. “I will lay down my life for him, if necessary. He will have no more devoted servant.” He realised he meant every word.

His eyes bore into hers and he was sure she wanted to say something that wasn’t the polite, correct thing to say. But an innate awareness that they were not alone, _never really alone_ , seemed to school her tongue. Instead she said, "It is only what I would expect from a king’s musketeer.” Her mouth spoke thus, her eyes pleaded that he understand her true meaning _: it is only what I would expect from a father._

“God go with you, Aramis.” He took her hand then and bowed low over it, their eyes never leaving each other. With her ladies behind her, she squeezed his hand and he returned the pressure, pressing his lips to soft skin.

 _This has to be enough_ , he told himself, unsatisfied with the knowledge that this felt like goodbye, like time they never even had had run out. This woman carried his child and yet he would never be a father. The light glisten in her eyes told him she knew his sorrow and felt the regret just as keenly.

 _Enough now_ , he whispered silently as he straightened. Perhaps with time, he would find acceptance in what had become the greatest injustice of his life.

She swept past him, her ladies already stepping forward. “I will never be sorry Aramis,” she whispered so low, he barely caught it. And then she was gone.

He looked after her, unaware of the yearning etched so clearly - so openly - on his face, the sadness radiating from his eyes, the stooped curve of his shoulders. A man defeated.

Aramis stood alone, with no one to hear his declaration. “Neither will I, Your Majesty. Neither will I.”


	2. I Just Can't Live a Lie

In the weeks that followed their lamented parting, Aramis caught only tantalising glimpses of her.

Once in the palace gardens, at a distance, close, but not close enough. He’d caught himself staring at her figure, able to perceive exactly who she was among the milieu of women in attendance. Her laughter carried, melodious, the sound mingling with the gentle rush of water being expelled from the fountain he stood beside, discreetly watching. He had not been able to discern any change to her shape from his vantage. It silently thrilled him to know that every transformation to her body would be because his son necessitated it.

Once they passed each other in the courtyard and it took all his self-preservation not to stare at the glorious swell of her abdomen. He would have said something, _anything_ , but Athos was at his side and with a courteous bow and a gracious, if a little gruff, “your Majesty,” he had shuffled Aramis along until he had put as much distance between musketeer and queen that the palatial grounds could muster.

Aramis imagined he’d seen her attempt at conversation then, but he had been ushered from sight so quickly, neither had the opportunity to do more than nod in the other’s direction, their eyes clawing at the other until even their shadows had departed. What little he saw he drank in the sight of until he felt dizzy from the frantic exercise.

She had looked well, healthy and happy. The knowledge simultaneously comforted and haunted. The thought that she was contented pleased him. And yet the idea what she could so easily forget… He knew he had no right, but he’d made peace with the fact that he was no longer rational about his complicated feelings. And so he continued his devout resolution to bury it so deep that he’d convinced himself it no longer mattered.

And finally, he saw her once in the throne room when he and Athos awaited an audience with the King.

“Aramis!” She had taken them by surprise, entering without her usual entourage, only one lady.

He bowed low, keeping his eyes to the floor while his nerves sharpened. Beside him, Athos had stiffened to a board, his bow perfectly regimental.

“Your Majesty,” Athos began. “We await an audience with the King.”

“Monsieur Athos, the King has been detained by other matters of state. I am afraid His Majesty might be a little while.”

“We shall return then,” Athos said, already in a bow, already backing from the room, an arm on Aramis’s shoulder, “at a time more convenient.”

Aramis felt a rush of irritation but he knew Athos meant well. He _could_ not look at her. He _would_ not look at her. But then… he _looked_ at her.

Well into her sixth month of confinement, her stomach was large and round, a clear sign of her pregnancy. It was the first time he had allowed himself to _really_ look at her in months, the only time she was _close_ enough in reality. And she was perfect.

She had halted in the doorway, but now after the surprise had worn off, she hesitated a moment before moving towards them.

“Please Monsieur, a moment of your time,” she said, although she addressed Athos. Aramis’s brow knitted as he turned to his friend. Athos looked as confused, shrugging his shoulders.

Anne turned to her lady-in-waiting and made a request they were not privy too. The lady curtseyed and left, drawing the door closed behind her. He was powerless to stop his heartrate from picking up a little.

“Are you sure that is the best idea, your Majesty?” He nodded towards the door and gave her a lopsided grin.

She smiled back and he felt a load lift from his shoulders.

“Are you afraid to be in a room alone with me Sir Aramis? I am a pregnant, defenceless woman. You have nothing to fear.”

He was sure he heard Athos snort, but surely the musketeer had better manners than that, especially in the presence of a queen.

His eyes were drawn back to her pregnant form. He had _everything_ to fear because all he felt for her came rushing back. Feelings he had believed, _convinced_ himself were buried, surfaced instantly - nothing had been buried, his feelings as real and present as ever.

Athos, sensing the flirtatious tension between them gestured to her form. “You look well your Majesty.”

She acknowledged the compliment, stopping in a circle of light directly before them. Aramis realised he had forgotten the exact shade of her eyes, the blue startling him now with its intensity.

“The experience has been different,” she admitted. “I have not suffered overmuch with morning sickness. The physician is astounded at what he calls my _boundless energy_.”

“This is a sign that the child is healthy?” Aramis asked. The question was a rush, out before he could stop it. If looks could kill, he would have been stone dead. Athos would have his hide later. Aramis was not aware how important the answer to the question was, how very much he wanted this child to be born healthy.

Her eyes were soft when they met his, rendering Athos’s presence almost irrelevant. “It is a _very_ good sign.”

The spell between them was broken by Athos clearing his throat, but also by the return of the queen’s lady. She passed her a note before discreetly moving out of eye line.

She turned to Athos. “Monsieur Athos, I do believe I have a letter here from a common acquaintance.”

“Your Majesty, it is an honour to think that we might have such a connection in common, and yet I cannot fathom who it could be.”

“Comtesse Ninon de Larroque.”

Aramis turned to Athos, his brow raised in amusement, happy to see his friend in discomfort for a change. “Ah, the rebellious Comtesse?”

Athos’s expression gave nothing away but years of knowing him meant that Aramis was able to read much into the indiscernible shift of his shoulders and the muted look shot in his direction.

“If memory serves your Majesty, the Comtesse had her title and lands stripped from her and then exiled from Paris. She is believed dead by her acquaintances.”

“The Cardinal has done many things I do not approve of. Neither does the King. His Majesty has granted her a pardon and I have been trying to convince her to return to Paris. There will be some explaining to do of course, but I do not see it as a great hardship.”

“She is returning to Paris?” Aramis saw his friend swallow and knew there was a lot more to this story.

“I am not sure if Ninon wishes to return to the city. Teaching suits her.”

Aramis was surprised that they corresponded and said so.

“She is a woman of intelligence and perception. Even a queen can learn new things.” He was silently impressed by her interest in a woman with very modern ideals.

“For you, from Comtesse de Larroque.” She passed the letter to Athos who was clearly taken aback. “Marie, if you would show Sir Athos to the adjacent alcove? I am sure he would appreciate a moment to read his letter in private.”

Athos could not argue with a queen’s edict and so bowed tautly, threw Aramis a final look before leaving them alone. The door was shut and they were alone, the receding footsteps of their departed guests the only echo. And then they just stared at each other.

“Anne,” he said eventually, _carefully_ , using her given name. He only ever used it the night he had murmured it over and over as he had trailed blazing kisses across her body. The light flush on her face told him she remembered too. “What are we doing?”

“I’m not quite sure.” Her eyes are bright. “I _am_ absolutely sure however, that I’m being foolish and impudent. But perhaps it is excused by a pregnant woman’s state of mind.”

“I will have to be the practical one then,” he said. “The irony does not escape me your Majesty. I am not known for my talent with the practicalities of life.” He didn’t know that his little grin was charming.

“Perhaps,” she said, but moved closer to him. For a moment, she seemed unsure, then made a decision. “But before practicality stifles courage, I would request you give me your hand.”

Aramis frowned. “My hand-?”

“Quickly,” she said urgently. “Remove your glove.”

Confused, he offered her his unencumbered hand and realised her intent too late; terrified and superbly excited at the same time. Anne watched his face as she placed his palm on the side of her large stomach, covering it with her hands. His heart raced, blood raging in his ears. His eyes flicked to hers, a frown between his brows. And then he felt it.

“Aramis?”

Unconsciously, he stepped closer, placing his free hand on the curve of her waistline as his other rested beneath her own. He felt it, his son kicking.

“You feel that?” she whispered, her voice low but eager.

He couldn’t speak because his throat had painfully constricted. So he nodded, bowing his head and closing his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. A lock of unruly hair had fallen across his forehead and she used one of her hands to gently push it back. Her touch soothed and persecuted.

“What do you wish for him?” she asked softly.

Aramis met her gaze and answered truthfully. It wasn’t something he had to think about. He had been reciting these prayers since the day he had found out he had fathered a child he would never be able to claim as his own.

“To be an excellent marksman.” She smiled at that. “To ride a horse, _really ride_ , not preen about like the k-” He was about to say _king_. Her knowing, if amused glance said she knew too. She graciously let it go.

“What else?”

“To love and respect women, all women, especially his mother.”

“How progressive of you,” she said with a big smile.

“You are not the only one who has been inspired by Ninon de Larroque,” he teased. He could not help himself. It felt good to be with her this way. “And your wishes?”

She stared straight into his soul. “That he is kind, courageous, fair, a gracious ruler. That he never forgets that he is a servant of France and that all his actions are governed by what is best for his people. That he finds happiness in marriage – finds love.”

“You want for him what you never had.”

She shook her head and squeezed his hand. The child kicked again and he chuckled, he could not help himself. “Perhaps not in my own marriage. But I have known love, dear Aramis. And I would not be human if I did not wish such joy for our child.”

_Our_ child. It was his undoing. Aramis stepped back from her then. He was torturing himself. Staying away from her had merit. Her eyes were moist and he felt guilty. But he knew that they were only making things worse. He adopted Athos’s stiff, regimental form and bowed low, the silence stretching between them more than he could bear.

“Your Majesty.” At the door, her voice rang out, clear but a little breathless. He closed his eyes, pinched them shut in fact.

“Is it possible Sir, to be the queen of countries, to want for nothing and yet wish with all your might that your life was something other than what it is? Is it not selfish, disrespectful to God, blasphemous even, when He has given and _blessed_ with so much?” Her voice trailed off. He let out a long breath, his shoulders once again heavy with the weight of longing.

“I am not wicked Aramis,” she continued. “I have been faithful to my husband and never laid eyes upon another with thoughts of straying from my vows. Yet I find myself entertaining fantasies that things could be different. That this miracle, this child, would be raised in a different kind of home. One where the love was strong, where I would wake up beside my husband every morning and find the comfort of slumber in his arms at nightfall. Where ceremony did not dictate or govern actions; but faith, honour and love triumphed duty. Where happiness was a prerequisite to the burden of obligation.”

He had no answer because _his_ life was ruled by his _obligation_ to the King. His _loyalty_ to the King.

A hand touched his shoulder and his heart leapt into his throat. “Are you happy Aramis?” She was beside him. She was touching him. With bravery he did not feel, he turned to look at her.

“Most days, I am.” Her eyes were wet and he unravelled. Wiping at her tears, he spoke truthfully. “But then I catch a glimpse of you and I wonder how happiness is defined. It exhilarates me when chasing the enemy, an honest pistol fight… or tavern brawl.” He grinned and she caught a glimpse of the rogue beneath the stifling burden of duty. “Yet when I see you across the vast expanse of the lawn, with all but acres separating us, I feel a kind of happiness, such that it overwhelms.”

She cupped his cheek and he leaned into her touch. “How do we part ways, Monsieur?”

Aramis leaned forward, planting a soft kiss to her forehead. He heard her exhale, her breath expelling in a rush. He could relate. They both heard footsteps approach and took respectable steps back. He turned to leave once more.

“May I write to you?” It was a softly uttered request, her eyes begging he acquiesce. They knew they were courting trouble, both keenly aware of the dangers. And evidently he realised with insight, they both loved more than they cared.

He opened the door and stepped through, spotting Athos at the end of the corridor. With a smile for her only, he whispered, “If it pleases your Majesty.”


	3. Forever Changed

" _The queen is in labour."_

Aramis looked up from the bottom of his pitcher of ale and felt nausea rise to choke him. D'Artagnan sat down at the table, having just arrived with news of the eminent birth of France's future regent. Aramis's seat at the table of the local tavern had become the common place in the last week. Her time had been nearing and for reasons he could speak nothing of, getting as drunk as possible, numbing every sense he had seemed to be the only way he could make the passage of time bearable.

Aramis caught d'Artagnan's frown as the younger musketeer rose from the table to purchase his own refreshment. He knew his hair was most likely ridiculously tousled from running agitated hands through it. This new level of dishevelment was quite a feat considering that under normal circumstances, it was generally an uncontrollable mop.

"Rough week?" d'Artagnan asked with a raised brow. Athos, who sat silently beside him, just gave the new musketeer a placating look. "Another round then?" d'Artagnan continued.

Before he could replay, Athos intervened, pouring him a cup of cool water. "I believe we've had enough."

D'Artagnan's brow rose again and Aramis could understand his confusion. Athos was sober. This was an unusual sight. But since Aramis had been determined to drink all of Paris dry, someone had to be the responsible one.

Alone for a minute before their companion returned, Athos returned to the diatribe he'd been repeating all week – since realising the drinking would be constant and unforgiving.

"She is young and strong. The child is healthy, Aramis," he growled, but not unkindly. "They will be well."

Aramis said nothing; instead he remembered the letters they'd exchanged. Not because the physical copies existed, they'd made a decision to burn each and every one, never to leave any physical trace of their corrospondance once the recipient had read the contents. But the words were imprinted on his mind as a tattoo to the skin. _Permanent_. And in this case, nothing he regretted.

_She was in labour._ He frowned into his cup as he took a sip of water, trying to temper the rolling nausea which had less to do with drink and more to do with his growing disquiet. _She birthed their child._

* * *

_My Dearest,_

_The period of confinement has begun. I dread it, lying in wait for the birth of the baby. The room is dark, stifling and so hot. Priests come and go, offering prayers for the safe delivery. But it is a burden I must bare, if only to ensure that this child has the best chance of survival. Its during this time that I think of you often. I wonder what adventures you partake in, whether you are safe._

_I think of your unique little habits; things I have discerned these past months or when I was so busy pretending_ not _to be watching you. The way your smile slants slightly to one side when you're in a teasing mood, the lilt to your voice when you whisper in my ear, your fingers as they brush mine rather scandalously when we're in public._

_But mostly, I wonder whether you think of me as much as I do of you._

_Write soon._

_Forever, YM_

* * *

Back from his thoughts, to Athos he said, "she refers to herself as YM you know… in our letters. YM." Athos looked confused. " _Your_ _Majesty_ ," he clarified.

"Yes, I do believe that is her title." Athos looked around he reasoned, to ensure no one listened to their conversation. It was impossible however, as his words were nothing more than a drunken whisper and they had secured a table in the far corner of the room. Even so, Athos was always diligent about protocols.

Aramis shook his head, the water in his hand sloshing dangerously. "Not Your Majesty as you or Porthos or d'Artagnan or any subject of France would use it. But _Your_ Majesty as in _My_ Majesty." He cocked his brow and bumped his chest. " _Mine_. _Mine_ Majesty."

Athos rolled his eyes in disgust. The older musketeer did not approve of the liaison, but he was done cautioning against it. Aramis brooded, going back to his thoughts.

* * *

_My Lady,_

_The thrill of adventure has been overtaken with the urgency of worry. Waking and unconscious thought is about you and the life you nourish. I pray that all goes well and impatiently look forward the moment I may lay eyes upon both of you._

_May God watch over you, as I do in my thoughts and prayer._

_With everything that I am, YK_

* * *

"I call myself, _Your Knight_."

"You and your flowery words," Athos muttered, but he was listening, giving his friend the ear he seemed to need.

"She likes that," he defended. "She is mine. I am hers." It was an almost inaudible fact, whispered to no one in particular. Aramis put down the cup, an overwhelming sadness replacing the nausea that had minutes before ridden him hard. "But I'm not, am I? And she isn't mine is she? Because if she truly was, I would be with her this moment. Not here…" he sulked, "as far removed as humanly possible."

"Aramis…" Athos warned, his look rebuking any further discussion on the matter.

D'Artagnan returned to the table. "How long do you think it will take? Constance told me it could be days." Aramis choked on his water and Athos thumped him across the back. "It really has been a rough week hasn't it?"

"You have no idea," Athos drawled.

Constance, now free of her husband, had been drafted into the employ of the queen. It could not have been more fortuitous.

* * *

_She has been a blessing from God. Someone I may confide in, who does not judge my actions. She speaks of her own complicated relationship and I have found comfort in the happy way her romance has blossomed. Despite the impossibility, perhaps someday, we might also be as providential._

_She has the most amusing tales to tell - of even your adventures. But she does not hold back her council. It is refreshing to be able to truly be myself with her. Just a woman._

* * *

Constance, as it turned out, was willing to pass their letters back and forth with the utmost discretion, faithful to her queen and confidant. It was a secret she kept from even d'Artagnan.

* * *

_I have known her for many years. Despite a fiery temper, she is loyal and the sole of discretion. I am not sure if I should be alarmed at the tales she might tell. If she paints me as brave, courageous, bold, the slayer of dragons, then she is truthful._

_If not, perhaps I should caution that I am no longer who I once was? Or that I have been changed forever since our first meeting?_ he had teased in his response.

* * *

_It took a while to become accustomed to her forthright manner of speak. She admits to forgetting who I am at times and doles out advice as she would to a friend. Continued exposure has ensured that I no longer take offense where none was intended. There are times when my other ladies do sometimes raise a cursory brow…_

_I do not need her to tell me tales of your bravery or your courage. I have experienced this first hand... many times._

* * *

_I do believe_ I _might be slightly red-faced My Lady._

_Perhaps I should have a word with her. Or perhaps not. We have known each other for ages. She is likely to box my ears should I broach the matter._

* * *

_If I may enquire… when you say you have known her…?_

* * *

_I have_ known _her as a friend. That is all._

* * *

_I thank you Monsieur, for the speedy clarification._

* * *

_A pleasure Madam, if it sets your soul at peace. I have want nor need for any other._

* * *

_I believe, Sir that now I am the one blushing._

* * *

"Constance says the child is large and that the birthing will be difficult. I dare say God knew what he was doing when he made women responsible for the continuation of our species," d'Artagnan prattled on, oblivious to the tense undercurrents.

Aramis did not hear d'Artagnan, lost as he was in his own throughts and worries. He knew women birthed babies, he knew they were created in such a magnificent way as to manage it successfully. It didn't stop the bone chilling terror he felt taking root at the base of his spine, holding him hostage. The hours passed as if they were years. He knew there was nothing he could do, and yet news, _any_ news would be a welcome distraction from the oppressive silence.

After sunset, a knock came at the door of his room at the garrison. Constance, her form completely shrouded by a large, black cloak rushed past him and into the room.

"Discretion," she murmured as she removed her large hood when the door was closed securely behind her. He felt his heart would burst at the sight of her. Half hope, half agony at what she might say. "I do not have much time." She must have seen the stress and worry on his face because she placed a kind hand on his forearm. "She is well. The babe… Aramis, he is a fine boy. Strong and healthy."

He exhaled audibly and turned away from her, leaning against the wall for support. It felt as if his entire life hinged on this moment, the words, _she is well_. She was alive. He could breathe again.

"She knew you would be anxious," Constance continued in hushed tones, the fiery colour of her hair intensified by candlelight. "She is tired, but very very proud. She sends you this." She passed him a wax sealed letter and he looked at the note from somewhere outside of himself. "It is not by her hand, she was not strong enough to pen it herself. There is a token inside."

He cleared his throat, focused on the letter. "Thank you."

"No one will be permitted to see the boy for a few days yet." Her eyes were sorry. "But soon," she promised. He knew the words were from Anne.

He nodded and she moved to leave, bringing the hood of the cloak up to cover her face.

"Constance… tell her-" His throat constricted and he couldn't get the words out.

She nodded, understanding. She hesitated a moment. "Aramis. I do this because I care about you." Concern was etched across her face. "And I have come to care for her too. Please, be careful. With the child born, if anyone suspected-"

"I know. We both know. It is the risk we take."

"I do understand," she said softly, squeezing his arm. "If it were d'Artagnan, I would risk the same." She paused, a small smile playing across the lips. "Well, it was easier since I wasn't a queen and he wasn't _quite_ a musketeer back then."

They grinned at each other, sharing in a moment of amusement. Before leaving, she cocked her head to the side and observed him with a small smile. "Your hair…" She shook her head, it seemed in equal turns amused and exasperated.

He just shrugged, assuming she made reference to the uncontrollable mess. Alone in his room after her departure, he tore open the letter, the words a blur as he inhaled them.

* * *

_My Dearest Aramis,_ (His chest constricted at the direct address. It was the only time she'd ever used his name. He suspected the lapse was due to the fact that the letter was dictated and Constance the scribe)

_He is beautiful. God has blessed us with a healthy boy, just as I knew he would. Have courage for the both of us. The separation is not yet at an end. But I pray that we will see each other soon. And that you might meet the one who is so beloved to us both._

_I enclose a token to tide you over. I am_ delighted _to inform that he has his father's unruly hair. It is plentiful and curls madly. He has already stolen every part of my heart that does not already belong to you._

_Forever, YM_

* * *

Folded inside the pages was a tiny lock of hair. Even in the dim candlelight, the lock, he was certain, the exact shade of his own.

It was then that he doubled over, his eyes burning with the weight of unshed tears. Aramis made no attempt to control his raging emotions. For so long he had kept it all back, now it threatened to crush him. The anxiety, the worry, the dizzying _relief_ poured from him in waves as incessant as those on the high seas.

On his knees beside his bed, he raised the cross around his neck to his lips, sending a prayer of thanks to God.

This is how Athos found him, intuitively understanding. He left after watching from the doorway for a minute, but returned a moment later with two cups and a pitcher of ale.

Without any other words, he poured the liquid, clapped his brother on the shoulder and held the cup aloft.

"To the continued health and safety of your heart."

Aramis smiled at his choice of words. "I might accuse you of using flowery words."

"There are times when it's called upon," Athos drawled with a small smile. "I shouldn't say it, and yet this once, I will. _Congratulations_."

"It is bitter sweet. He will never know who I am. I will never be able to lay claim to him."

"Do you regret it?"

Aramis grinned. "Not at all." He took a long drink. "So… when do you get me into the palace on official duty so I might see my son?"

Athos rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath. "Unbelievable."

He was smiling into his cup though – barely - but Aramis did not miss it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some more story to tell. I had planned 3 chapters, but I've expanded the story a little. Expect at least two more chapters. Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing.


	4. See You Again

" _You, my friend, have been assigned to royal baby minding."_

Aramis looked up from the pistol he was cleaning, pushing the brim of his hat back to see the two musketeers who descended from Treville's rooms. Athos came down the stairs first. Porthos, who had spoken, was behind him.

"Apologies." Porthos continued. "Treville wanted two volunteers before assigning musketeers. Athos over here," Porthos rapped him across the back, "volunteered your services."

Aramis looked at his friend and tried hard to hide the grin that threatened to break his face in half. He was going to be close to Anne. And his son.

"How tedious an exercise," Aramis said, looking back at his pistol, making a pretence of running the cloth across the surface. He let his hat shadow his face, giving him a moment to compose himself. In truth he didn't even see the weapon. "Thank you Athos," he said with liberal amounts of fabricated sarcasm.

"I would remind you both that this is the future regent of France. Enthusiasm is not a requirement. This is your duty," Athos drawled.

Porthos had the good grace to look slightly abashed, but not by much.

"Porthos has no patience with children," Athos continued, his tone unaffected and as usual, deceptively lazy. "And d'Artagnan is one himself." At that his lips curled into a small smile. "I thought it best to volunteer my services and yours."

"I make no argument against your logic. Enjoy brothers." Porthos winked at them both as he walked from the yard.

"Your celebrations may be presumptuous. You might be recalled to Versailles in a few weeks." Athos's voice carried to him.

Porthos simply called back, "But not yet." His laughter echoed around the garrison's courtyard.

When he was out of sight, Aramis put down his pistol and launched himself at an unsuspecting Athos. The hug was big and generous; it was grateful.

"Now, now. This does not guarantee you will get near either of them." Athos's tone was stern, but he briefly embraced him in return. Aramis knew he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. But he was doing it anyway. It meant everything to him.

"Thank you."

Athos stepped back. "Do not thank me. I act against my better judgement."

Aramis grinned. "There is a romantic inside of you yet."

Athos snorted and rolled his eyes. Aramis grinned then, broadly, happily.

"We're expected at the palace. Am I assured of your discretion?"

Aramis buried his trepidation. "Always."

Athos had his brow raised, doubtful of his declaration. "I do recall seeing you hang from a married woman's window once."

Aramis chuckled, steering his friend towards their horses. "At least I was fully clothed."

"Barely," Athos shot back.

* * *

While Athos had believed they would not see either mother or son, the Queen clearly had other plans. They spent the morning doing routine checks on the regiment and artillery. By midday they were summoned to the Queen's rooms.

Aramis's feet felt like lead as he walked towards her quarters, his head light with anticipation. Beside him, he felt the steadying hand of Athos. He sent his friend a grateful look.

"I feel that delicious lunch wanting to make an appearance."

"For the love of God, keep it together, Aramis. We will not be alone."

These were the same words Athos had been repeating ever since Treville had briefed them on their assignment. The royal party was making its way to Versailles, moving to the country for the first few months of the child's life. The King would follow them at a later date. Until then, he and Aramis had been assigned to the protection detail.

The palace was a hive of activity as servants and footmen worked furiously to pack and prepare for the Queen's departure. Her quarters were made up of various sitting rooms where she received guests when indisposed. Aramis had never been to her private area.

Stepping inside, he took a minute to orientate himself. The room was filled with sunlight from the large windows, spilling across the furniture and the muted wallpaper until it seemed like everything was aglow. The flurry of activity did not extend here as everything was quiet and calm. His eyes went to her first. Anne sat on a royal blue sofa, a glorious balm to his battered nerves. He tried not to stare, but it was near impossible. Instead, he bit down on his back teeth, tensing his jawline.

She wore a light blue gown with a cream brocade under-skirt. The basque bodice had a rounded midriff, a silk ribbon tied at the waist. Baroque jewels decorated her stomacher, the large lace ruff around her face matching the lace ruffles at the sleeves of her gown. If anyone looked at his face right then, he knew his feelings for her would be written there plainly.

Constance stood off to the side. She gave him an encouraging smile and he could barely manage one in return. His eyes tried to covertly scour the rest of the room. But there was no sign of a bassinet. The child was not in attendance. He was distressed and relieved in equal measures.

"Monsieur's, I thank you for your fealty. There is no other body of men I would entrust with the safety of my son."

Athos stepped forward. "It is our honour your Majesty. We live to serve and protect until the last breath leaves our bodies."

Anne nodded and their eyes met briefly. He swallowed hard, his hands aching as they clutched at his hat.

"The King would like to confirm the final arrangements before our departure for the countryside. He awaits you in the throne room, Sir Athos."

Her words were pointed and Aramis cast a side glance to his friend. Athos bowed and then turned to leave, his expression unreadable to anyone else. To Aramis who knew him best however, it was stern.

"A reminder that Captain Treville would like to discuss the route before departure," he said loud enough for Aramis and the Queen to hear. It was also a clear caution:  _do not stay too long._

Athos left the room and he stood silent, a little overwhelmed at seeing her after so long a time. All he had had was the comfort of her letters. The reality of having her so close had him feeling slightly incredulous, a little out of depth. He, a rake of note, ill at ease with a woman. But not any woman. He knew it was a testament to just how much he felt for her.

And then he heard the muffled cry of a babe. A frown marred his forehead before he could stop it. Constance, still standing behind the queen, politely excused herself, heading in the direction of the cries.

His eyes took in as much of her as he possibly could, afraid that their time together was already running out. She looked well, a little puffy, but more beautiful than ever. She was smiling at him, her hand outstretched. It was all the invitation he required. He sank to his knees at her feet, taking both her hands in his and kissing it in relief. This was no royal protocol. But he didn't care.

"Are you alright?" It was whispered against her skin.

"I am very well." Her hands went to his hair as his head rested momentarily in her lap.

"Was it hard?"

"It was not easy. But I have already forgotten half of it because of what  _we've_  gained."

The cries became louder and Aramis rose, tearing himself from her orbit, walking to the windows and staring out at the vast expanse of the lawns. He saw nothing, heard only the beating of his heart as it echoed in his ears like an incessant drum. After a discreet knock, Constance entered, a bundle of writhing white in her arms.

"The wet nurse has excused herself momentarily your Majesty. I thought the young Prince would appreciate the opportunity to see his mother. And meet a musketeer." The last bit she added after a pause.

"Please Constance, bring him to me."

Aramis's turned, his attention was rapturous, his palms warm but itching to reach out and touch.

The child was gently handed to Anne.

"Madame Bijou has injured her foot slightly. It is nothing alarming, just a minor bruise. It does take her a while however, to move around the palace – especially on the stairs."

He understood the meaning. They had some time. Unobtrusively Constance moved to the far corner of the room and sat down in a winged chair, facing away from them, her needlepoint on her lap.

And then the child mewed and his attention returned to the bundle in her arms. He looked to her for permission and she granted it. Anne nodded towards the child and Aramis's usually assured footsteps faltered as he approached. The hat in his hands suddenly became too heavy to carry and Anne removed it gently, placing it on the sofa beside her.

His heart burst as he peeked at the babe. The child was half awake, his eyes barely open. His face was round and full, his cheeks flushed from sleep.

And then Aramis grinned, a deep chuckle accompanying his roguish smile. Because Anne had been right. Little Louis's hair was plentiful, a miniature version of his own. Unruly, untameable, curling in some places, straight in others. To Aramis, in that moment, he was the most beautiful child in all of France, even the world.

"Would you like to hold him?"

 _Yes, with everything I am._  But he was afraid, afraid already of the overwhelming love he felt. Carefully, he lifted the boy into his arms. He weighed nothing, light as a feather, he thought, settling him into the crook of his arm.

It felt like he belonged there and his chest constricted painfully. He offered her his free hand and she stood too, both staring in silence at their secret marvel.

"You will have to brush his hair your Majesty."

She giggled and he chuckled. "Yes, it's quite a mess."

"It adds a certain charm I believe. A fair warning: he will be a rascal."

"One might say that it takes one to notice another."

He winked at her. "Reformed, I do believe."

He might have heard a snort from Constance's direction, but he didn't care. Their smiles were matching in its breadth. Anne reached out and ruffled his own hair. His breath caught and so he cleared it, startling the boy. He opened his lids and Aramis locked eyes with his son. His eyes were startlingly blue – the exact shade of his mothers. Little hands flailed and he caught one, the tiny fingers contracting around his own. While physicians knew this as a reflex action, to Aramis, it was as if his son recognised him as his father. The knowledge comforted him immeasurably. He stored the feeling deep inside, along with all his other impossible desires.

"Thank you, Anne. For this moment."

"I'm only sorry it cannot be for longer." Their foreheads touched as they stared at the child.

"It is enough." He realised that he meant that.

She leaned over and he met her halfway, touching their lips together in a sweet kiss. They fit together seamlessly he thought, like a perfect glove. His heart whispered she was his. His head knew it was not an accurate assessment. And now their time was up.

Gently, he passed son to mother. When he bowed, it was more than just a courtesy; it was a  _thank you_ , a reverence to all she had done to bring life to their surreptitious legacy.

The gold cross around his neck swung forward and she lifted it, boldly placing a kiss to it before tucking it back into his uniform. When her eyes eventually met his, he was surprised at her boldness, but pleased by the heightened colour in her cheeks. His queen was full of surprises.

* * *

"You are not going to give her up are you?" Athos asked when he met him at the end of the corridor. Sauntering into the sun, Athos put his hat on his head and began walking down the garden path. Here they were free of prying ears.

"The truth?" Aramis knew he wouldn't like it.

Athos's shot a stoic look in his direction. " _All for one_  is our dictum I believe."

"No," he said at last, firmly. Not now, especially not now.  _Not ever._

Athos sighed. "Then it's time we tell the others."

Aramis began to protest. "The more people who know, the greater the danger to everyone. I will not place the burden of my secret upon our brotherhood."

Athos stopped him, placing a halting hand on his shoulder, his words low, purposeful, heated. "You are a father now.  _You have a son_. It is our duty to protect the future regent, even more so because of who has sired him."

"You do not approve."

"No, I do not. How could I? You can never claim him. You can never risk looking at him when there are others around for fear of revealing the love of a father. That love Aramis, it already radiates from you." Aramis felt the sting of his words keenly. Athos removed his hat and ran his hands through his hair. More gently however, he conceded, "But I admit that he isn't my son. If he were, I cannot conclusively say that I would not be making the exact same decision. You would lay down your life for France, now more than ever because of who will one day become her ruler. We all need to be clear on what we're fighting for."

Silence stretched between them, the gentle breeze rustling the shrubbery around them.

"You would lay with a Queen?" Aramis teased eventually, his heart a little broken. Athos just grunted. "You're right. A Queen likely wouldn't have you. Not rebellious enough eh?"

" _Your_  Majesty seems rebellious enough for all of Paris," Athos said drolly.

Aramis inclined his head. "She does like your Comtesse though. Perhaps this is where inspiration has struck."

"Ninon is not my Comtesse," he said irritably.

"And yet you know instinctively of who I speak.

"Aramis-" Athos said, his tone exasperated.

He raised a hand in surrender, moving on. "Porthos will hate this." Athos lifted a brow. "Well, he'll hate that it's taken me this long to tell him. He does love being in the know."

"He is loyal."

Aramis could not argue. "d'Artagnan?"

"A little less predictable in his response. He is still governed strongly by emotion and might feel the betrayal to the crown keenly."

"But he did court the lovely Madame Bonacieux while she was married to another."

"Madame Bonacieux is not exactly the Queen of France."

"No, lovely as she is, she's not." Aramis grinned. "Well, don't tell her that."

"d'Artagnan will tell no one."

Aramis already knew that. "He  _will_  give me hell however. As will Porthos." He groaned. "And Constance when she has to deal with d'Artagnan."

Athos smiled at his obvious disquiet – broader than he thought he had ever seen him smile. He mounted his horse and stared at Aramis from his higher vantage.

"Now  _that_  I will encourage."


	5. I'll Stand By You

“There is something of some… importance which I must share with you,” Aramis began uncomfortably. He had travelled back to Paris and left Anne and his son _– the future regent_ , _not_ my son, he reminded himself - in the capable hands of Athos in order to tell Porthos and d’Artagnan the truth.

d’Artagnan, off to deliver a missive on Treville’s instructions, had not yet returned and Aramis was grateful. He’d wanted to talk to Porthos first.

Sitting alone in the garrison’s courtyard, Porthos looked at him, eyes twinkling with mirth as he poured himself some ale. “You haven’t another comrade who wishes to kill a musketeer, do you?”

Aramis flashed a weak smile. He was nervous and unsure. “Nothing like that, no.” He eyed Porthos’s pistols and wondered if this was a good idea. Perhaps he should unarm his friend first.

Porthos frowned, leaning closer. “This seems serious.”

Nodding, Aramis removed his hat and bunched it in his hands, not sure where to start. “I-I have a son,” he blurted.

Eyes widening slightly, Porthos’s face eventually split into a wide grin. He reached across the table and slapped Aramis on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Try that jest on young d’Artagnan. I would not fall for so obvious a ruse.”

Aramis grimaced in his friend’s direction, making eye contact, unaware of the desperation evident there. In the growing silence, Porthos eventually lowered his cup and sobered. “You’re serious?”

“I am.”

Porthos took a long draw from his pitcher and then exhaled loudly.

“Who’s the mother? One of the widows in town?” He fired questions rapidly. “Not one of Richelieu’s women surely?” Aramis shook his head briskly, his anxiety rising to choke him. This was harder than even he had imagined. “Thank God. You’d have been courting trouble then, eh?” Porthos continued, “don’t tell me it’s a wench? I’d have thought you had better sense than to get-”

Aramis’s mind was reeling. “Porthos! Stop!” He raised his hand to silence his friend. His tone gentler, he reiterated, “Brother, stop. Please.”

His friend halted.

Aramis took a deep breath and focused on Porthos’s chin. Somehow, that made the words tumbling from his mouth come easier. “It’s Anne.”

It felt as though his words were ricocheting across the garrison’s walls, a deafening silent echo reverberating in his ears. He watched as confusion crossed over his friend’s face, then understanding and then utter disbelief.

“Aramis, you don’t mean _Queen_ Anne?” He bellowed the name, his cup hitting the table with a loud thud as he stood, leaning forward with both hands, amber coloured liquid sloshing over the sides.

“Lower your bloody voice!” Aramis hissed, eyes scanning the surroundings. All was clear.

“You mean to tell me that the future _King of France_ is _your_ son and you mention this now?”

Aramis hated the wounded look that flashed across Porthos’s face. “I wanted to tell you-”

Porthos interjected. “I knew it! I _saw_ you giving her the look. I _saw_ it!” Realisation dawned. “Wait a minute. Royal baby duty. All the time you and Athos have been spending at the Palace. This was the reason, wasn’t it?”

“Porthos-”

“Who else knows?” Aramis couldn’t help the guilty flush that stained his cheeks. “Don’t give me that look. Athos? Treville?”

Lifting his hands in surrender, his hat dropped onto the table, the brim badly mangled. “Athos is the only one who knows.” At Porthos’s raised brow, he continued hastily, “But only because he caught us… together. Oh, and Constance,” he finished with an apologetic grimace.

Growling, Porthos made a move to leave. Aramis sprang to his feet and hastened around the table to prevent him from departing. “By necessity only. Anne told her, not me.”

“Stop calling her that! _She_ is _H-e-r M-a-j-e-s-t-y_. Her-bloody-Majesty! _Not Anne!_ ”

Aramis met his eyes then, his gaze steady, voice urgent, low, sincere. “She is to me. Both of those things.”

Porthos shook his head, glared at him for a long, hard moment before flopping back down onto the bench, a permanent frown on his face. “When?”

Glad he was _somewhat_ calmer, Aramis settled opposite him. “When we were at the ur…” Aramis scratched his head, sheepish, “convent.”

Porthos whistled low, almost chuckling in disbelief. “Seriously? With nuns a corridor away? You are a brave man.” There was a hint of admiration in his voice.

“Helene had died, we talked and… one thing lead to another...” His voice trailed off as he shrugged embarrassed. “Athos walked in on us the next morning.”

Porthos shook his head. “You do realise you would be hanged for this?”

“It matters not,” he declared ardently. “I care about her, Porthos and now she’s birthed our child. I would risk my life for theirs.” His fervour seemed to take Porthos aback.

“You love her.” It was a statement filled with disbelief. “How did this happen without me knowing? You’re in bloody love with the Queen and she’s had your son. All these months. I feel a fool.” The words were aimed at no one in particular. It was as if he thought out loud.

“I chose not to tell you because I didn’t want you implicated if our secret was somehow exposed.” He looked his friend in the eye. “I would not gamble with your life.”

Aramis hung his head and closed his eyes as the sweet memory of Anne holding their son flooded his consciousness. If the pain that squeezed his heart and caused the pangs of longing deep within his soul were any indication, then he loved her beyond measure.

Porthos lifted a hand and patted him on the back comfortingly. A second later, he muttered, ‘ _oh to hell with it’_ , and pulled Aramis into an embrace. “We’re brothers. Protecting your boy would be my greatest honour.”

 _Always loyal._ Athos had been right. “Thank you.”

“I’m still bloody annoyed. But…” With the beginnings of a smile, the other man poured them each a drink.

Aramis shook his head. “Not before I tell d’Artagnan.”

“Porthos! Aramis!”

Both of them turned toward the entrance to see the youngest member of their quartet stride toward them with purpose.

“No time like the present,” Porthos laughed, draining his cup in one gulp. “Best of luck, mate. The pup’s going to give you hell.”

* * *

 

“You’re still alive. I take it you weren’t maimed too badly?” Athos drawled a few days later. They were scouting the perimeter.

Aramis dismounted, tethering his horse to a nearby tree. Athos, still mounted, used his spyglass to survey their surrounds. “Quite well, under the circumstances. I’m glad I stayed a while.”

“I take that to mean d’Artagnan took the news badly?” Athos’s smirk was obvious.

“More because he believes I forced Constance to lie to him.”

“At least in that he is mistaken.”

“Reminded me a bit of you actually.”

Athos raised a brow. “How so?”

Aramis grinned. “Kept saying something like, _‘but she’s the Queen!’_ ”

“Indeed.”

“Eventually Porthos gave him some ale and told him to get over it.” Aramis hesitated, shuffling. “How are they?”

Athos folded his spyglass and attached it to his belt. Walking his horse over to Aramis’s he easily alighted. “Well, as far as I can tell. I haven’t laid eyes on the Queen since you departed.”

He nodded. He desperately wanted to see her again. To see little Louis again. “Do you think that-”

“Do not get your hopes up, Aramis,” Athos cut in swiftly. “Getting you close is one thing. Putting you in a position to spend time with them is quite another.” As always, his words were flat, but Aramis detected an underlying sympathy. “You know its impossible.”

His shoulders drooped slightly. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Athos countered, dryly. “Unless you have a death wish, this will be your life from now on. A stolen moment here or there is all you can look forward to. And even that is not guaranteed. Or wise.”

Aramis stared across the vast landscape at the edge of the Palace’s boundary. “I _do_ understand, Athos. I’ve accepted that I will never be father to Louis or husband to Anne.” His voice trailed off. “However, that does not mean that I can make myself indifferent to their existence.”

“I do wish that you could. For everyone’s sake.” It was said with no malice. And Aramis had to concede to the truth of Athos’s words.

Anne and the child were all he thought about. He knew and accepted that the dream of being together in the traditional sense would never come to pass, but still, it wasn’t easy thinking of them so far removed from him. Sometimes in his darker moments he wondered what lessons his son would learn from him, if any at all. How could he be a father without ever saying the words or acting in a manner that betrayed his position? Would he ever be able to gaze upon the boy with nothing but polite concern? Professional indifference?

Then, in other less fractious moments, he realised what a miracle it was to have created a life with a woman he cared for. Being a parent was never something he’d ever dreamed of, or thought possible because of the life he lead. The daily task of fighting for King and Country was no place for children. And yet he stood father; a truth unknown to the world, except for those who mattered most to him. In the end, was that not all he needed? His life would be spent in service to the most precious gift ever bestowed upon him. It would be enough.

Silence stretched between them.

Sighing, Athos spoke. “The Queen will host a ball in a few weeks. The King will come to Versailles for the event. She has asked to be briefed on the protection detail in his absence. Perhaps you would like to perform the honour?” Aramis knew how reluctant Athos was to throw them together, so the fact that his friend was doing it against his better judgement meant the world to him.

He grinned like a fool. “Athos, thank you.”

His lips curled faintly, the only indication that he was aware of Aramis’s pleasure. “Don’t thank me yet. This could prove to be a disaster.” Eventually, Athos confessed, “Comtesse de Larroque will be here. For the ball. The Queen has sent an invitation and she has accepted.”

Athos’s surly tone only increased his own cheery disposition. “I say it again. You’re a romantic at heart.”

Athos’s snort was his only rejoinder.

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, Aramis once more found himself in the Queen’s private rooms. Arriving alone, he’d left a less than thrilled Athos in the hallway, charged with ensuring that they had no unexpected arrivals.

He’d barely closed the door behind him when Anne walked into the room, Constance a few paces behind. “Aramis!” she called, momentarily forgetting herself as joy radiated off her in waves. His heart nearly exploded.

“Your Majesty,” Constance cautioned.

“It’s alright,” Aramis assured her, removing his hat and running a hand through his unruly hair. He knew he must be a sight. “Athos is outside. He will let us know if any visitors arrive unannounced.”

Beaming, Anne cast all protocol aside and flew into his arms. There was a rustle of silk and satin before he held her close, savouring the feel of her curves against his, the lavender scent of her hair as he buried his nose in the mass of her intricate coif, the touch of her hands as they roamed freely across his back. Neither of them noticed when Constance discreetly excused herself.

“I’ve missed you, Sir,” she breathed against his neck.

“You have been in my thoughts day and night.”

Drawing back slightly, he looked at her. She was beautiful; her blue eyes clear as a cloudless summer sky. Unable to resist, his lips descended and met hers, both clinging to the other, afraid the opportunity might not come again.

“Are you well?” he asked at last.

She smiled. “Better now that you’re here.” She swallowed, her eyes growing misty. “I know my duty, Aramis; to France, to Louis, to our son. But I cannot be without you.”

He wiped at the tear that spilled onto her cheek, emotion stirring within his breast. “You’ll never be. I’ll always be with you. I swear to you, for as long as you need me, I am yours.”

“Are we selfish Aramis?”

He laid a soft kiss across the back of her hands. “Possibly. Probably. I cannot bring myself to regret it.”

She paused a moment before saying, “You could have a family of your own. You could fall in love and-”

He cradled her face gently in his palms. “Anne, I am in love with _you_. I could never walk away from you, _from us_ , and live a contented existence. My happiness is intricately and eternally bound to yours. There are challenges aplenty, but with you is where I belong.”

Their foreheads touched. “Dearest Aramis, _challenges_ is a great understatement.”

He chuckled and placed a kiss to her forehead.

“I have loved none but you and I shall never love another.”

Her words, finally spoken, soothed his heart. No matter what lay ahead, knowing she belonged to him would make all the sacrifices he’d have to endure worthwhile.

Constance clearing her throat pulled them back to the present. “Your Majesty, the Prince is awake. Would you like to see him?”

Anne glanced at him, waiting for his assent. It came swift and sure. Within moments Constance brought their son into the room and deposited him straight into his father’s eager arms. Excusing herself again, she closed the door behind her.

Aramis grinned as he stared into Louis’s tiny face. It had only been a few days, but he swore the baby felt heavier. “He’s grown,” he whispered in awe.

“They tend to do that,” Anne teased.

Touching the boy’s cheek reverently, Aramis marvelled at the silky smoothness of his skin. Locking eyes with his father, Louis gifted his sire with a toothless grin.

Excited and pleased, Aramis leaned down and kissed his forehead tenderly. “He smiled at me,” he whispered, his heart swelling with paternal pride. It was foolish, but he liked to believe that his son recognised him for who he was.

She laughed, moving to his side. Instinctively, he drew her closer. “I promise to do my best to ensure that Louis grows up knowing you. If he cannot know you as his true father, then I want him to know you as his fiercest champion.”

He kissed her softly, his eyes aglow with emotion. “There will be none to rival me.”

Holding his son in one arm and the love of his life in the other, Aramis felt the puzzle pieces of his life fall into place. Their situation was far from idyllic, but in moments such as these, he understood why he’d always choose this imperfect life over any other.

* * *

 

The musketeers watched over Louis until he was no longer a boy, but a man. Aramis was the musketeer who taught the young King to shoot and ride a horse. He offered council to a teenager and later to a man. Porthos and d’Artagnan, skilled in swordplay taught the boy his way around weapons – and women. Athos, assuming command of the musketeers after Treville’s retirement, ensured that the King was adequately protected from forces like the Cardinal.

Aramis lived on the outskirts of his son’s life, but he was somehow always within his sphere. For more, he could not have asked. A decade after the King passed on and Louis ascended to the throne, Anne retired from public life. At this point, she requested her son’s permission to marry a musketeer. It was granted, if only because the King knew how fiercely his mother was loved and how loyally he had been served.

Their love affair had spanned decades. The night they married and they lay together in their marital bed, Aramis could not believe their fate.

With her splayed across his chest, he drew her near.

“I cannot believe I have you in my arms. And should anyone see us, we have nothing to hide,” he whispered into the darkness, the only light in the room supplied by a few remaining candles.

“It’s taken us many years to reach this place.” She reached up and traced his mouth with her finger. He caught it and pressed it to his lips.

The years had been kind to both of them. Always an agile, active man, Aramis would always possess a physical prowess. Although now, almost twenty years later, there were silver threads at his temples, some weaving through hair as unruly as ever. Anne was no longer as lithe as she had once been, but she had sweet curves in all the right places. To him, she was more beautiful than she had ever been.

“Would you have changed anything?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head briefly. “Although, this is much better.”

Aramis reached up, rolling over and trapping her beneath him. His heartrate increased as he settled between her thighs, the way it still did after all these years.

She reared up to meet his lips as it descended towards hers, whispering, “Yes, yes it definitely is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end. a massive thank you goes to ladyofglencairn, a wonderful writer who wrote the outline for this final chapter. check her out. if you read arrow fic, she’s your go to person. for the purposes of this story, there is no second son. anne has one son only, that is louis. thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed.


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